


Save it Were Lightly

by quimby



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco, The Killers (Band), The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-28
Updated: 2009-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-04 06:07:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13358118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimby/pseuds/quimby
Summary: Written for eleanor_lavish for the popoffacork holiday exchange. London AU.





	Save it Were Lightly

Brandon seriously considers lighting his copy of The Guardian on fire; he would be doing himself a kindness. The pages are smudged and deeply creased by frequent readings. His eyes keep catching on a particular line: "...so far the best rock album released this year."

"Bullshit," Brandon spits out under his breath.

"What's that now?" Carl asks, looking up from the patch of floor where he's hiding behind the register. An aging skinhead dropped off a cardboard box filled with fading magazines, old vinyl and cassettes about an hour ago, and now Carl is picking through it in hopes of discovering anything of value.

"This... review, if you could call it that." Brandon smacks the newspaper soundly against the counter with a grand sweep of his arm. "Reviewers flock to these talent-less hacks like a herd of sheep! I can't comprehend why. What is their appeal?" 

Carl stares at him blankly. "Who... oh." Comprehension clears the confused expression from Carl's face. "Still smarting over that boy band, are you? I thought you got over that months ago."

Carl, seemingly bored with Brandon, proceeds to blow loose dust off a particularly dirty looking cassette tape. The dust-motes fly every which way in a hazy cloud that shawls Brandon's skin with a fine layer of dust. 

Last October, Brandon declared it time to put The Killer's many rivalries to rest. He and his band-mates were to keep their eyes forward, marching onward toward their glorious futures as world-famous musicians, revered by the critics and masses alike. Losing sleep over bands of insignificant stature was a waste of his precious time. But still. Brandon finds himself yet again, distracted. He blames the fucking paper. How can he concentrate on composing a musical masterpiece when a band that named themselves Panic at the Disco (of all the ridiculous things) is dominating the local music press? Impossible. Brandon can't write lyrics under these conditions; the irritation clouds his head so he can barely concentrate. 

Carl sighs heavily from his crouch on the floor. "Just try-try keeping your mind off it, yeah? We're going out tonight to see that new band Pete's on about. That should cheer you right up." 

The newspaper glares at Brandon from the corner of his vision, broadcasting unpleasant catch-phrases like "piano-plonking anthems" and making preposterous comparisons to the likes of Billy Joel and Henry Rollins. Brandon imagines himself using Carl's lighter to incinerate the paper once and for all. But the satisfaction would be fleeting at best. Besides; Brandon has yet to finish the crossword puzzle. Thirty-eight across is Marilyn Monroe, and he's saving it for later. 

Brandon likes to plan ahead. 

 

\---

 

Their destination is situated between a vacant repair shop and a doddering cafe. What was advertised as new club is instead a dank basement; the floor is nothing but uneven planks laid directly over packed earth. The wood is warped from years of age and flood damage. The bar is a massive dive, but Brandon finds himself liking the place in spite of himself. He's pleased to note an baby grand pushed off to one side of the narrow stage. 

As expected, Pete and Carl disappear almost the instant they enter the venue. Brandon supposes they ran out to share a smoke. Or they could be in the loo, jammed together in a stall, their feet overlapping on the sticky lino as they pass a joint back and forth. They'll surely reappear halfway though the set, reeking of cloves and cinnamon. More likely than not, Pete and Carl will sling their arms around Brandon's neck and yowl along with the performers, their grins as wide and cracking as any Brandon has seen before.

The lights dim. Anticipation fills the room, and Brandon gets swept up in the excitement. London. His childhood dream come true. The reality of living here is exhilarating, still. Even on the days when he absolutely hates it. Even when it's rained for weeks straight and Brandon wants kick up a fantastic racket, yell like a cowboy, shred every copy of NME he spots on the train and hop the next flight back to Vegas.

A towering fellow with an impressive nose emerges from stage left. He seats himself at the piano with a nod to the crowd. Another body steps forward, considerably less in height, but equally dark and enigmatic. The second man is clad in tight black jeans and a ruffled white button-up. He tosses his head in a sultry, exaggerated manner then grabs the mic and launches into a wailing cover of The Zutons, stomping his feet and growling his way though the chorus. While the man's voice is pitchy at some points, almost whining at others, it also rings out clear as a bell. Brandon watches as if entranced. This strange creature cast a spell over the entire room and everything within it. 

The crowd goes wild. Brandon's never seen this kind of reaction for just a two-piece act, but the all kids holler and dance, chanting along when the singer thrusts his mic into the audience. The pianist sways along to the razzmatazz melody, rolling his shoulders. The boy dominates the stage. He paces from side to side. He even climbs up on the piano for a song, smirking at the audience and arching his hips. Brandon watches, transfixed, at the curve of the man's lower back, the unbelievable arch from his round ass to his shoulder blades. Brandon wants to slide a hand into that space and guide the pistoning movement of his hips. Let it be said that Brandon is an absolute whore for a good front man, and this kid is stunning. He rocks up onto his heels and lifts his pelvis towards the ceiling. It's indecent. Brandon is finds himself incapable of tearing his eyes away from the spectacle. The boy straps on an acoustic guitar and serenades them with a one hell of an encore, banging a tambourine against his head. 

It’s not until the lights have risen and the crowd has dispersed slightly that Brandon remembers Carl and Pete. They never made it back from wherever it was they ran off to. He’s grateful they were not present to witness his reaction to the show. He makes his way to the bar, the floor packed with too many drunk bodies for such a small show. 

His search for his friends is cut short when Pete spots Brandon from across the room. "Oi!" he hollers. Carl's perched beside Pete on a barstool. He waves his arms, ushering Brandon over until he's close enough for Carl to whisper-shout in his ear: "I'm sorry, mate. I should have warned you before, but Pete's taken up with their lot; I think they share a dealer." 

"Flowers!" Pete says, "We've got some blokes here just dying to make your acquaintance." Pete turns to the men standing at his left and leans in conspiratorially. "My dear fellows. This is my mate, Flowers," he declares with drunken relish, locking eyes with Brandon. 

Pete's grin could only be described as wicked, "Brandon, have you met Panic at the Disco?" He gestures to the other men; one short and compact, the other long and unnaturally thin. The skinny one is dressed in tweed from head to toe. 

Brandon chokes on air. Carl keeps a steadying hand at his back while he composes himself. "Nice to meet you," he manages after a moment of awkward silence.

The skinny one graces Brandon with a benign stare. He offers a long-fingered hand for Brandon to shake. "I'm Ryan. That’s Jon," he says. "We're big fans of your band, really," he says, voice eerily toneless and devoid of emotion. 

Tight-lipped, Brandon smiles. He wipes a clammy palm on his pant-leg. 

"And this, Pete drawls exultantly, "is Brendon." 

Like a dream, the lead singer materializes seemingly from thin air "Hi," he offers, voice raspy from his earlier exertions. 

Brendon moves closer. He is not a fantasy, no. He's breathless and sweaty and unbearably human. 

To Brandon, this knowledge is nothing short of a revelation. 

 

\- - - 

 

"So you're not bothered?" Carl asks wonderingly 

In all honesty, he was a bit miffed with his friends. But when Brandon replayed the events of last night over in his head...

A sunny smile, the curve of muscle under sweaty fabric. Brendon leaned in close to be heard over the din of the room. “Did you like the show?” he asked.

It was hard to hold on to that anger.

“It was a good show.” Brandon says to Carl, like he'd said to Brendon the night before. 

Carl shakes his head in disbelief, but doesn't prompt Brandon for further reaction.

Afternoon drags on in the little shop. There are a limited number of menial tasks to keep them occupied on rainy days such as these. There’s another guy, Jeph, who works the odd weekend, but he mostly hangs out behind the register and reads comic books. Occasionally, he'll pull out his phone to text… someone. Brandon suspects his muscle-bound roommate who hangs around after closing, waiting to drive Jeph home. In any case, Jeph takes care of the customers, which frees time for Brandon and Carl to tackle personal projects. For Carl this means holing up in the storeroom, drinking Kahlua while he runs figures on their fossil of a desktop computer. Brandon on the other hand prefers the more laborious, time consuming projects. This month he emptied, cleaned, and re-organized the browser racks He’s almost through. There’s only the Jazz and Country left now, and Brandon hopes to finish by closing. 

Menial tasks and tedious busy work fills Brandon’s waking hours. Maybe it would be depressing, if Brandon weren’t absolutely petrified by the by the idea of switching jobs or going back to home the States or committing himself to anything that required his engagement with the general public.

“Having fun?” 

He blinks up through a haze of self-pity and cleaning fumes. The voice belongs to Brendon: leaning casually against the rack opposite, hands jammed in the tight pockets of his skinny jeans. He’s wearing a violently yellow t-shirt underneath a tan corduroy jacket with his sunglasses looped though the coat’s lower buttonhole. He looks good. 

“How do you feel about cleaning?” Brandon asks.

“That all depends.” 

“On what?” 

“On who I’m cleaning with.” 

Brandon fights a smile, fiddling with an empty CD case he found jammed between sectionals.

Brendon's grin is apologetic. “I would totally stay and help, but I’ve gotta take off in minute. Spencer, our drummer—“ Brendon inclines his head in the direction of a bearded young man perusing the magazine rack by the front door. “We're on a quest to find the perfect sub. I had to bribe him to make a pit stop.” 

“How much?” 

“I promised to pay for his meal.” Brendon leans in close and says in an exaggerated whisper, “Spencer takes his subs very seriously.” Brendon's gaze darts nervously to his drummer, but the other boy doesn't seem aware that his obsessive quest for sandwiches is the topic of conversation. 

“Anyway, there's a mission to my madness. I'm here to invite you to a party. Tonight. Are you busy?”

Brandon is never busy. He pretends, when his mom calls, when his exes call, that his schedule's filled with a glittering array of terribly important appointments. But in reality he leads a quiet life. Tonight for instance, Brandon had planned on sitting home with take-away boxes while watching Mr. Bean reruns on the telly. 

“No, I'm—” The words catch in his throat. Brandon doesn't understand why this enchanting boy who stumbled unwittingly into Brandon's boring life is now requesting his presence for social gatherings. This kind of thing doesn't happen to Brandon. This kind of thing doesn't happen, period. He shakes his head to clear the thought. “What time should I be there?” 

After jotting down his cell number and the address for the party, Brendon departs with a smile and a wave, dragging his friend bodily from the store by the crook of his elbow. Brandon stays rooted to the spot, staring uncomprehendingly at the scrap of paper in his hands. He hears a snort from the front of the store. Jeph is laughing at him from behind the register. 

“Where did you pick him up, the playground?” 

Brandon chooses not to dignify that remark with a response. 

 

\- - -

 

As parties go, this one is rather tame. The apartment was unlatched when Brandon arrived, people spilling out into the hall. The loft is airy and empty and contains very little in the way of furniture, save for the couch parked in the center of the room like a lone ship in a sea of bodies. 

Brandon spots Brendon almost immediately. He's planted in the corner of said couch with his arms encircling his calves, knees tucked up under his chin like a child. Sat beside Brendon is a young woman. She has bleached hair and a labret piercing. They're squashed together like sardines, and Brandon watches their faces brush when Brendon leans forward to whisper in her ear. 

Brandon feels very, very stupid. 

He backs up slowly, almost stumbling over a couple loitering at the exit. Brandon bursts though the front door to the street. Damp London air seeps though his clothes, his skin. He lights a cigarette to keep his hands occupied. Closing his eyes, he listens to the roar of traffic, of motorists and cabbies roaring past in a blur of sound. Brandon could hail one of those cabs, swan around the city for hours until the itch beneath his skin subsides to something more tolerable. 

“Hiya, Sailor. ” 

He opens his eyes.

Brendon stands before him, dangling a cigarette campily between his pointer and index fingers.

“Gotta light? ” 

“You're ridiculous.” The way Brandon says it sounds nothing like an insult, and Brendon doesn't interpret it as one. He angles closer and presses the butt of his cigarette to Brandon's, lighting his end with the glowing cherry. The sign advertising the Indian restaurant across the way paints red and orange streaks on the damp pavement. Brendon moves in, closing what little distance there was left between them. A motercycle passes, loud. It kicks up a spray of water with it's tires. 

They're so close that Brendon has to angle his head up to make eye contact. “Not a big fan of parties, huh?” he asks.

Brandon runs his free hand though his hair, frustrated. “I used to be. I don’t know, it’s just— lately, not so much.” 

“Yeah. I’m not really feeling it tonight, either." Brendon exhales, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. The smoke lingers around his head, illuminated by the street lamps. It cloaks the air around them in a hazy net of light. "We should get out of here. I want— can I come home with you?” 

Brandon silently considers Brendon's question. In all his life, he's never come across a person with as much confidence as Brandon aims to project on a daily basis. It's sexy as hell, and more than a bit intimidating.

“Sure,” he says at last. “It’s a few blocks that way, if you don’t mind walking.” 

Brendon ducks his head, smiling. He doesn't seem to mind. 

 

\- - -

 

The flat is empty and quiet, just as Brandon left it. His roommate has taken a temporary leave of absence; exploring Rome with her girlfriend. She sends Brandon postcards with charming messages scrawled across the back, like: Don't forget to water my plants, asshole. Love, Sarah. One such card is mounted proudly on their fridge, script side out. 

The polite thing to do would be to give his guest the grand tour. He'd walk Brendon though the four dusty rooms, chattering nervously about vintage tables and his collection of rubber stamps. Brandon has forgotten his manners. He leads Brendon directly to the bedroom and shuts the door behind them with a dry click of the lock. 

“Oh, no, ” Brendon says in mock dismay. “Looks like we're trapped. Whatever shall we do now?” His tone morphs from light humor to something absurdly hot as he steps forward and boxes Brandon up against the door with his slight frame. 

His bedroom is small and dark and quiet around them. The blinds were left open. Brandon wonders if anyone else is watching, if they can see Brendon’s quick fingers as they inch beneath the hem of Brandon’s shirt, blazing an open-palmed trail across his lower belly. 

Brandon can't believe what's happening now, or anything else that happened in the moments leading up to this moment. He watches, delirious, as Brendon drops to the ground with a muffled thump against the thin carpet. 

Oh, he thinks. 

Brendon captures his flailing hand and brings it to his full mouth to kiss Brandon's oblong thumb, his knuckles. The cavern of his mouth is wet and hot. Brandon crooks his pointer and index fingers and strokes the ribbed roof of Brendon's mouth. 

"You know, Brandon says slowly as it occurs to him. "I don't think you have any idea what you're doing." He rubs softly along the broad plane of Brendon's tongue, because he wants to. Because he's in the position to do so, and Brandon likes to press his advantage when he can.

Brendon bites down playfully on his fingers with sharp canines before releasing them. "Neither do you," he replies and pointedly licks the indentations left behind by his teeth. "Do you really think it matters?" 

"No," Brandon says, softly. "I guess it doesn't."

Brendon beams up at Brandon from the floor. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he's alive and careless and beautiful and everything Brandon never wanted, wrapped up in this bawdy mess of a human being.

He says, "That's right, buster. And, hey, get used to me being right all the time. Remember this moment in the future, 'cause it won't be the last time."

**Author's Note:**

> well this was written in 2009, so. warnings for that.


End file.
